gathering around the chief’s fire.
Word drifted from the very folds of the tent skins and was soon being whispered around campfires by women bending over their cooking pots.
There was to be an uprising. The great Chief Sitting Bull to the south was tired of the broken promises and the intrusion of settlers and soldiers. He was going to settle the issue of land once and for all and was asking his brothers north of the border to join him. The invitation had been delivered to Chief Crowfoot. He was to make a decision. How many chiefs would join him if he chose to go?
Long into the night the council fires burned. In the early morning light many of the elders mounted their horses and followed Chief Calls Through The Night out of the camp in the company of the Blood warrior.
Running Fawn had never felt so frightened. Among the men who rode off at the first light of dawn was her father. She knew little of uprisings, nothing of treaties, but she did know of wars and raids. There were always horses that returned with no riders. There was always much weeping and wailing within the camp as the women mourned their dead, and there was always loud beating of the drums and display of weapons and bravado as the braves voiced their intent for revenge.
The tension in the camp grew as the days slowly passed. Running Fawn could feel it. Could hear it in the muted voices. Could sense it in the tightness of her mother’s jaw as she worked at the scraping of the buffalo hides.
“When will he be back?” she dared to ask one day.
She did not speak her father’s name, but she knew her mother would understand her meaning.
“When he is finished,” her mother responded and turned her eyes back to the skin.
Running Fawn saw how tense her mother was, could see it in the movement of her brown hands.
She had to ask. Had to know. “Will it take long—to drive away the Whites?”
“Perhaps,” said her mother.
“Why did they come?”
“Because what we have is good.”
Running Fawn let her eyes drift over the wide open prairie with its wind-browned grasses and its distant hills, smoky blue in the gathering twilight. She longed for the far-off mountains, too far away to even be seen, yet inwardly she could hear their call, sense their presence. Yes. What they had was good. No wonder the pale-faced people wanted to take it from them.
She hoped her father and the other brave warriors of her people would be able to stop them—soon.
They did not need to wait or wonder for many more days. A cloud of dust rising on the open prairie meant that a group of riders was coming their way. At first there was concern bordering on fear. But as the riders drew nearer the small band realized that it was indeed their own men who were returning to camp. The concern turned to joy. It had not taken long for the nation to defeat the enemy.
Each woman left her tanning rack or cooking pot with grateful cries yet a fearful heart. Would her warrior be one that was missing?
But as they drew nearer to the returning party there was great rejoicing. Not one pony was without a rider. Cries of thankfulness lifted upward. They had been victorious. They had won the battle quickly, without a single loss.
There was both surprise and a measure of disappointment when they learned the whole truth. There had been no participation in the uprising. The great Chief Crowfoot had declined Sitting Bull’s invitation. “We can never stop their guns,” he tried to reason. “They come, more and more.”
Many of the young braves had been anxious to be involved. Their hot blood cried for action against the intruders. If they didn’t fight, how would they survive?
Running Fawn was puzzled by the whole proceeding. Why didn’t they just go back to their hills and live as they always had? Why did the elders think they had to do anything differently than they always had? Why did there have to be change?
December 5, 1876
Dear Brothers in Christ,
I have been visiting many of
Word drifted from the very folds of the tent skins and was soon being whispered around campfires by women bending over their cooking pots.
There was to be an uprising. The great Chief Sitting Bull to the south was tired of the broken promises and the intrusion of settlers and soldiers. He was going to settle the issue of land once and for all and was asking his brothers north of the border to join him. The invitation had been delivered to Chief Crowfoot. He was to make a decision. How many chiefs would join him if he chose to go?
Long into the night the council fires burned. In the early morning light many of the elders mounted their horses and followed Chief Calls Through The Night out of the camp in the company of the Blood warrior.
Running Fawn had never felt so frightened. Among the men who rode off at the first light of dawn was her father. She knew little of uprisings, nothing of treaties, but she did know of wars and raids. There were always horses that returned with no riders. There was always much weeping and wailing within the camp as the women mourned their dead, and there was always loud beating of the drums and display of weapons and bravado as the braves voiced their intent for revenge.
The tension in the camp grew as the days slowly passed. Running Fawn could feel it. Could hear it in the muted voices. Could sense it in the tightness of her mother’s jaw as she worked at the scraping of the buffalo hides.
“When will he be back?” she dared to ask one day.
She did not speak her father’s name, but she knew her mother would understand her meaning.
“When he is finished,” her mother responded and turned her eyes back to the skin.
Running Fawn saw how tense her mother was, could see it in the movement of her brown hands.
She had to ask. Had to know. “Will it take long—to drive away the Whites?”
“Perhaps,” said her mother.
“Why did they come?”
“Because what we have is good.”
Running Fawn let her eyes drift over the wide open prairie with its wind-browned grasses and its distant hills, smoky blue in the gathering twilight. She longed for the far-off mountains, too far away to even be seen, yet inwardly she could hear their call, sense their presence. Yes. What they had was good. No wonder the pale-faced people wanted to take it from them.
She hoped her father and the other brave warriors of her people would be able to stop them—soon.
They did not need to wait or wonder for many more days. A cloud of dust rising on the open prairie meant that a group of riders was coming their way. At first there was concern bordering on fear. But as the riders drew nearer the small band realized that it was indeed their own men who were returning to camp. The concern turned to joy. It had not taken long for the nation to defeat the enemy.
Each woman left her tanning rack or cooking pot with grateful cries yet a fearful heart. Would her warrior be one that was missing?
But as they drew nearer to the returning party there was great rejoicing. Not one pony was without a rider. Cries of thankfulness lifted upward. They had been victorious. They had won the battle quickly, without a single loss.
There was both surprise and a measure of disappointment when they learned the whole truth. There had been no participation in the uprising. The great Chief Crowfoot had declined Sitting Bull’s invitation. “We can never stop their guns,” he tried to reason. “They come, more and more.”
Many of the young braves had been anxious to be involved. Their hot blood cried for action against the intruders. If they didn’t fight, how would they survive?
Running Fawn was puzzled by the whole proceeding. Why didn’t they just go back to their hills and live as they always had? Why did the elders think they had to do anything differently than they always had? Why did there have to be change?
December 5, 1876
Dear Brothers in Christ,
I have been visiting many of
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